


you can dance in a hurricane

by Palebluedot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Calm Before The Storm, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I got caught up TODAY and these two have me SOFT and very CONCERNED, M/M, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, some people have first dates in a safehouse...to cope, spoilers through MAG160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:56:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22995808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: One could almost mistake the scene for properly romantic, if you focused on the candlelight and ignored the dingy safehouse surrounding it, the recent brush with doom that still stains the clothes they haven’t changed out of. It’s almost a parody of romance – but there’s a thin line between the parody and the uncanny, Jon thinks, and it’s wonderful to be firmly on the other side of it for once.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 27
Kudos: 179





	you can dance in a hurricane

The car they hired to take them north is expensive, and nearly silent. Jon stares at the little numbers on the display, watching them tick up, up, up with each passing mile, the country rolling by the window all the way. With a wry sort of start he realizes he can’t really expect the Institute to reimburse him for the fare, and he almost turns to say as much to Martin, but then he freezes.

That’s the thing about cars, you can’t really look at somebody by accident while sat in one. You have to turn your head, or adjust a mirror – make a _thing_ of it. He supposes it’s not always a _thing_ , when the question of whether it is or isn’t one isn’t quite so loaded, but for them, right now, it definitely, definitely would be. Between the wasteland serenity of the Lonely to the whiplash chaos of the Institute under siege, and Basira hollering at them to _get out of there_ and shoving an address in their hands, there hadn’t been much time for words beyond what amounted to little more than exposition, so when the cab doors slammed behind them, cocooning them in a little metal case of quiet, well. What do you say?

Jon lets the words die on his tongue. It was barely even a joke, anyway. No chance of making him smile, so. Little point to it. His eyes drift to the window, but they catch on movement far short of the gray sky, the brown fields.

It’s the faintest thing, the reflection. He could almost think he’s imagining it, except he just _knows_ that Martin is watching him through the makeshift looking glass of his own window, just the way Jon is watching him.

They both made a choice, turning. It was another choice to look back.

And yet – although he can feel himself being watched, can feel the space between them _waiting,_ and he still doesn’t know what to _say_ –

Slowly, the shape in the window shifts. Understanding dawning sweetly, Jon reaches back to meet it. The hand he takes is soft, but far too cold.

“You’re freezing. Here, I can – ” But as Jon moves to take off his jacket, Martin’s fingers wrap around his in an instant, frantic.

“No, I’m okay, just – stay there? Please?”

Martin’s face is pleading with him – when did they turn around? – and Jon realizes stupidly late that of course it’s not the chill of the night, or the season, or the northward trek that’s gotten to him. Torn-off shreds of loneliness still cling to him, stuck like seaweed wrapped around the leg of a drowned thing. Not drowned, Jon corrects himself. Swimming. Surfaced. Heading to shore.

“All right,” he says. Then, softer, “Come here.”

And Martin does. With his seatbelt straining and digging into his neck, Jon follows suit so that they’re both folded up onto the seat, curled towards one another, facing in. Jon can’t – can’t _hold_ him, not really, but they make a little pocket between them, and the apex is the place where Jon has his cheek pressed into Martin’s hair.

With a sigh, Martin reaches for his other offered hand. Jon catches his wrist with his thumb, and the little numbers keep ticking all the way there out of the corner of his closing eye.

Standing in the hall, still sodden from the foggy rain that couldn’t quite decide to fall, Jon feels for a light switch and finds only bare wall. After a moment’s fumbling, Martin produces the torch on his phone, and the stark, cold light shows what he already suspects. No lamps, no light fixtures – just a wood-burning stove, and a cobwebbed stack of firewood.

“I guess when Basira said this place was off the grid, she meant _off the grid_ ,” says Martin.

“I suppose so.” A moment’s clarity, so bright it almost makes him wince. “There’s candles in the cupboard.”

Following the torchlight, they make their way to the kitchenette-like corner of the little house, and between stockpiled boxes of ammunition, they find what they’re looking for.

“I’ll start lighting these,” Jon offers, just as Martin says, “I’ll see about dinner, shall I?”

 _Dinner_ seems to Jon like a charitable term for whatever might come from the meager rations in the cupboard, barely enough to sustain the most miserable bachelor for a day, but he doesn’t argue, and takes the lighter from his pocket.

The safehouse was built for one. One chair at the spindly desk, one bed in the corner, one bare shelf. Jon finds the candle holder on the desk by torchlight. As he clicks on the lighter, behind him, the stove flickers to life, and the firelight grows. Jon hovers near the stove in a vague attempt to help out, but really, there’s only so many hands needed to boil pre-packaged lentils and rice, so he mostly just leans against the counter while Martin stares at the pot, until eventually he declares it done.

They plate up and sit, Jon taking the chair, and Martin perching on the end of the bed. It’s quiet again, and with their hands busy with dinner – flavorless, but hot – there’s no room for the wordless, tactile comfort that feels easier, somehow, than speaking.

Eventually, Martin is the brave one. He dabs his mouth with a paper napkin and says without preamble, “So I don’t think I actually said thank you – you know. Before.”

“Oh. There’s really no need for – ”

“No, there is. You saved my life, Jon. More than that, you saved _me_. That’s... _kind_ of a big deal. So, thank you. Really, _thank_ you for not leaving me behind.”

“It...it was nothing. I know you would’ve done the same for me.”

“Right,” says Martin, suddenly fascinated with the dregs of lentils at the edges of his plate. “About that. My memory of being in there’s a bit...hazy, until the end? But I’m _pretty sure_ I dropped a certain... _l-word_ , before you snapped me out of it. Which is, ah, pretty intense, I know, so I just wanted to say, if you don’t – ”

“...Martin.”

“I mean, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t...expect anything, or need you to – ”

“Martin –”

“We can totally just forget about it if you like, only – ”

“ _Martin,_ ” says Jon, and finally manages to get through, judging by how Martin snaps into silence. Instantly guilty, Jon takes a steadying breath. _Try again_. “It’s really, really all right. I – ”

The thickness of the silence as he fumbles for the right words is almost enough to make Jon wish for the clarity in the depths of the Lonely. There was no such hesitation when he took Martin’s face in his hands and watched him _see_ , or when they followed each other home. Only fear and desperation, then relief, bright as joy.

“You’re not the only one,” he settles on, in the end. “I know I’m not much...good at any of this, but please believe me when I tell you that I _missed_ you these past months. Terribly. I – I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want – I can’t lose you again. So, if you want to pull away, or pretend that nothing that happened down there happened, I won’t stop you, but please don’t think to do it for my sake, because that is the last thing I would ever ask of you.”

“Oh,” says Martin, blinking softly. “Wow. That’s...really, really nice to hear, actually. I just wasn’t sure if you even _knew,_ I suppose.”

“I didn’t,” Jon admits, sheepish. “Feels silly to say it now, of course. I’m sorry, for not noticing.”

“Oh, don’t be,” says Martin. “It’s actually a bit of a relief, to be honest. You can’t imagine how stressful it is to learn that the man you’ve had a secret crush on for ages has started to develop powers of omniscience.”

“...Christ, I can imagine.”

“You really can’t,” Martin says darkly, but with humor in his eyes. “Anyway, it’s out there now, so. Not taking it back, don't worry.”

Martin smiles at him – a real one, Jon thinks, not the rictus kind brought on by nerves, and with it comes an aftershock of relief, the same sort that’s been rippling through him all day. Despite everything, Martin really seems _okay_. He’s not yet lost himself entirely if he can still make Martin smile. There’s still a way forward, and they can take each other along.

The quiet returns, but lighter now. Not defined by the absence of speech, but by the soft clinking of Martin’s fork against his plate, the crackle of the stove across the room dutifully trying to warm the chilly little room.

When a lull in the not-silence comes, Jon opens his mouth. “So...what sort of movies do you like?”

Martin snorts around his forkful of rice. “Are you – was that a _date_ question?”

“Sorry, that was – ”

“No, no, it’s fine! It’s just that thing – ”

“ _Really_ stupid – ”

“You know, that thing where someone asks what your favorite, I don’t know, _food_ is, and suddenly you forget _every_ – ”

“I was just trying to...I don’t know.”

“It was like that, but with...movies.”

They both give up on talking for a moment, and Jon watches how Martin’s attempts to clamp down on amusement and embarrassment only make it more obvious, lips pinched and cheeks pinking.

“ _W_ _eird_ first date, is all,” Jon eventually mumbles.

Clearly still holding back laughter, Martin asks, “But in a nice way?”

Martin's obviously teasing — no, more than that, _flirting_ , and isn't _that_ something — but, well. It's not so ridiculous, really. One could almost mistake the scene for properly romantic, if you focused on the candlelight and ignored the dingy safehouse surrounding it, the recent brush with doom that still stains the clothes they haven’t changed out of. It’s almost a parody of romance – but there’s a thin line between the parody and the uncanny, Jon thinks, and it’s wonderful to be firmly on the other side of it for once. It's wonderful to _be_ at all, with someone dear alongside. Someone who understands.

“In a very nice way,” Jon agrees, and Martin doesn’t smile at him then.

He _beams_.

Jon clears his throat, carries on. “Besides, believe me, I’ve had plenty worse.”

“I _don’t_ believe you,” says Martin, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to follow up on this.”

So Jon tells the story of how he made a complete ass of himself in front of the waiter on his first date with Georgie under feigned duress, and Martin laughs and laughs at him, and tells him how his college boyfriend’s little sister couldn’t take a hint to save her life, and then it’s down the winding path of _“Did I ever tell you”_ s and _“Remember when?”_ s, and all the while the candles burn down low.

It’s only a little awkward when they decide to blow them out and go to sleep.

Martin steps into the tiny half-bath to change, and emerges wearing an old t-shirt and pajama pants Jon recognizes from the time he spent sleeping in the Archives, years ago.

“I remember those,” he says as Martin folds up his glasses and puts them on the desk.

“Yeah,” says Martin with a bit of nervous laughter. “Good times, right?”

He gets into bed beside Jon, hovering stock still, right on the edge. It’s a twin mattress – clearly, Daisy never expected to have company here. Jon believes that somehow, it must have felt smaller to her.

“Hard to believe that I once would have felt safer there than I do here,” Martin says, barely audible.

But Jon hears him. “Let’s get some sleep,” he says. “Maybe it’ll all make more sense in the morning.”

“I don’t think it will,” Martin says after a pause. “But thank you for saying so anyway.”

Jon’s never been terribly afraid of the dark, but knowing what he knows, he can’t help but cast his eye about the room, naming the shadows. Their dinner dishes unwashed on the desk. Their suitcases lying open in the hall, rooted through but not yet unpacked. The flutter of the curtain above the bed, revealing –

– and Martin, turning towards him with a creak of old bed springs. His eyes shine a bit in the dim. “I can _hear_ you thinking,” he says. For all its weariness, his voice is warm. He pulls an arm free of the thin blanket and fits it around Jon’s shoulders. “I’ve got you.” When Jon releases a sigh he didn’t even realize he was holding with a shudder, Martin, fearless, holds on that much tighter. “I’ve _got_ you.”

And Jon says, “I know.”

He holds his head up for only a moment before laying it down, tucking it under Martin’s chin, letting himself be blind to all but the front of that soft old t-shirt. Only a moment watching the draft through the windowpane send the curtain rippling, to show a glimpse of empty sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from ["The Eye"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wl_eNu4NUVI) by Brandi Carlile because... ye ah :) 
> 
> Comments are love!


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